Half Asleep, Wide Awake
by Ta'er Sagheer
Summary: "I told you," he said quietly, shrugging. "I don't wanna go back. I won't go back." / Alvie shows up at the hospital looking for House, who discovers he's off his meds again. AU, takes place before "Baggage."
1. Chapter 1

**A/N**: _Because the fandom could really use a little more Alvie. Reads best at 1/2. Enjoy.  
_

* * *

House paced, consciously avoiding the urge to lay a hand on his thigh and rub the knotted, disfigured crater where muscle had once been. With each step he grimaced, twirling a dry erase marker as he moved.

"So basically," he began, tapping the marker obnoxiously on the white board as he passed it, "what you're saying is we have no idea what's wrong with our patient."

Although the statement was aimed at everyone, his eyes instinctively zeroed in on Foreman, who sat with his arms folded.

Foreman sighed uneasily at being signaled out, his head slowly bowing in defeat.

"At this point?" he shrugged. "Yes."

House studied his team, a puzzled frown pulling at his mouth. He pointed the marker in their direction accusingly. "I thought you guys were supposed to be doctors."

Thirteen groaned loudly and slouched, resting her chin in her hand.

"Every test we ran came back negative," she said.

Taub sighed and bowed his head, busying himself with papers on a clipboard.

"Maybe he's not really sick," he offered timidly.

Thirteen's eyebrows rose. "You think he's faking?"

"Wouldn't be the first time," Foreman added.

House twirled the marker around and listened to what Taub had to say. He noticed, however, that Taub began to trail off, his brow creasing. He sat forward in his chair, tilting his chin up and sitting tall, in order to see beyond Thirteen.

House snapped his fingers.

"Hey, I'm not paying you to sit around and—" but then he saw what the problem was.

From where he stood, he could easily make out a short, dark haired man walk around in circles, scratching at his neck nervously and poking his head into offices. House squinted and stared hard, his head cocked to the side. The man was carrying an overstuffed duffle bag that hung around his neck and forced him to lean too far to one side. He walked stiffly up and down the hall, as if searching for something. Or someone.

"Oh, crap," House muttered.

"What is it?" Thirteen asked, swiveling around so quickly that her dark hair fell across her shoulder. "Do you know that guy?"

"Stay," he instructed, grabbing his cane and heading into the hall.

He limped along with surprising speed, watching as the man managed to corner an older doctor (Crais…Crags?), waving his hands expressively, clearly frustrated. The man shook his head and pointed in the direction of House's office, then stalked off, leaving Alvie with a scowl on his face.

Alvie turned to leave, and then caught sight of his friend, his face lighting up.

"House!" he hooted and hollered in excitement, making House cringe in chagrin. "Yo, House! It's me!"

House signaled for him to lower his voice, watching helplessly as Alvie began barreling down the hall, duffle bag bouncing against his knees, and slammed into the less enthusiastic man, capturing him in a bear hug.

"Guess what? I'm out!"

"I can see that, Alvie," House said, pushing him off and grabbing hold of his shirt collar.

"Hey!"

"In my office," House said, beginning to limp back to his office, dragging Alvie along with him. "Now."

"What's the big idea? Lemme go! C'mon! I just stopped by to say hi! C'mon, let go! House—okay now you're hurting me!"

When they were out of the hall, House released him, glowering and contemplating the extreme uselessness of the large, glass wall for the first time in a while.

"Tch." Alvie jerked away and began to smooth down the front of his shirt, shifting from one foot to the other. He removed the bag from around his neck and shoulder and let it thump loudly onto the floor. "Not cool."

His annoyance was quickly forgotten, however, as he inspected his surroundings. "Hey, nice office. What's that thi—"

"What are you doing here?" House demanded, raising his voice.

Alvie jumped at the sudden sternness of his voice.

"Just wanted to see you. Relax."

House could see his team watching them intently out of the corner of his eye, and intensified his glare in hopes of warding them off.

"You can't just barge into a hospital and interrupt people," he explained, waving his hand for emphasis.

"Interrupt?" Alvie looked to his left and blinked in shock, spotting the trio of people in white coats sitting around the glass table. He grinned and waved enthusiastically. "Who're they?"

"My team."

"Cool. They work for you?" Alvie asked, inching his way to the door that separated the office from the conference room. He put both his hands on the glass and pointed. "Is that a coffee maker?"

"Alvie, get away from—" Not only was Alvie already introducing himself, he was also awkwardly leaning across the table, intent on shaking everyone's hand.

"Is this that Wilson guy?" Alvie asked as House entered, inspecting Taub, who appeared very uncomfortable with the extra attention. "The one that hung up on you?"

Taub stiffened and smiled politely, though still looked afraid. "Hi..." he answered slowly, carefully, as though talking to a rabid dog. "I'm Doctor Taub."

"That's Taub," House repeated. "The black guy is Foreman," he added, then gestured to Thirteen. "She's not Wilson, either."

"Uh, House?" Foreman said. "Who's this?"

He made a sweeping gesture with his hand. "Minions, Alvie. Alvie, minions."

Alvie cheerfully announced, "I was his roommate," and nudged House.

"Mayfield?" Thirteen asked.

Alvie held up three fingers in a W and turned them upside down to make an 'M'. "Representin'! Hey, any of you guys like rap? I got some killer lyrics like you've never even seen before."

"This guy's great," Thirteen said with a big grin.

"Is he for real?" Taub asked cautiously.

House felt his patience wearing thin, and decided to speed things up. "Yes. We're home boys for life, and while I'd like to solidify that with a customary fist-bump, I've just been informed that Alvie here is late for a rap battle. He has to leave. Immediately."

"What?" Alvie said, spinning around. "No I don't. I just got here."

"Which is why we're all so sad to see you go," House assured him, setting a heavy hand on his shoulder. He squeezed hard enough to elicit a response and nudged Alvie back to the door. "Back into the office."

"Ow!" Alvie yelped.

"Uh, it was nice to meet you?" Taub called over his shoulder, then looked back at Thirteen and Foreman and shrugged.

House pushed Alvie back into his office, and told him as gently as possible (which wasn't very gently at all), "you need to leave."

"What? Why?"

House perched on the edge of his desk, watching Alvie blink rapidly. "Because this is a hospital, not a daycare." He frowned. "Why are you so twitchy? Are you on something? If you are, maybe you shouldn't leave."

"Twitchy? I'm not twitchy."

"Of course you aren't," House said belatedly, giving him a quick, thorough head to toe. "Are you lying?"

"I'll stay out of your way, I promise," Alvie interrupted, his face showing desperation. "Just let me chill with you for a while. Please? Don't make me beg. Come on."

House scowled deeply. Something definitely wasn't right. He caught Foreman's attention and waved at him to stop sitting around and get busy, then watched them leave. He turned back to Alvie.

"You're not taking your medication," he said, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"

"I already told you! I can't think when I'm on that stuff! My lyrics suffer."

"It also evens you out," House pointed out, curiously leaning in to get a better inspection of his friend. "Keeps you from jumping between wanting to run a marathon and wanting to lie in bed all day every ten seconds."

"I'm telling you, that stuff just makes it worse."

"Maybe you're not on the right medication."

"Yeah?" he said, jerking his head toward House's leg. "How're you doin' on those those non-narcotics?"

House held his breath, becoming as still as a statue. His fingers twitched slightly, and he wondered how long he'd absently been rubbing his thigh.

He mumbled, "It's manageable."

Alvie scoffed and said, "Riiight. I knew that whole 'take your medicine, stuff'll be great' thing was a load of crap."

"Pain can be managed," he retorted, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Why did that sound so wrong to say? Probably because he didn't want to just manage his pain, and he knew that Alvie was aware of that.. "For you it's different, but with proper medication and psychotherapy, you can—"

"Or maybe, _all that stuff is a load of crap!_" Alvie spat, beginning to rapidly pace the length of his office. "You know, there's been studies, sayin' that antidepressants can make you depressed."

"I'm a doctor; don't throw 'Studies Show' at me," House said, rolling his eyes. He gestured to the comfortable chair the corner. "Go sit down before you wear a hole in my carpet, and tell me why you're really here."

"I got nowhere else to go," he said at last. Beads of sweat were beginning to collect on his brow, his cheeks were red and he looked out of breath. He crossed the room and collapsed into the armchair, head in his hands. "I can't go back to Mayfield. I can't. I already been there four times."

"If you're using, maybe you_ should_ go back. I could check you in for the night, get you a ride—"

"I'm not! Not... not right now." he said quietly, fidgeting in the chair. "It's just…I dunno. It's hard. Things've been real hard lately."

"What about your family?"

He snorted, wrapping his arms around himself. "Yeah, I got family, but they don't wanna be around me. Not until I'm 'better'. Can you believe that? Of all the stupid—wish somebody'd tell 'em you don't just 'get better'."

"So why me?"

"I told you," he said quietly, shrugging. "I don't wanna go back. I_ won't_ go back."

It wasn't anymore of an answer the second time, but he decided to let it slide.

"What's your prescription?"

"Effexor… But I don't want to go see my old doc anymore. He doesn't get me. Not like you get me, House."

House raised his eyebrows in surprise. He almost smirked. "I don't think anybody gets you."

He was just about to ask Alvie to leave again, when he saw the hurt flash across his face, and realized he'd lost his edge. He nearly swore. He didn't do nice, and he especially didn't do caring, but something stopped him from sending Alvie away.

"Where are you staying?" House asked curtly, setting his jaw.

Alvie shrugged.

"You don't know, or you don't want to tell me? Do you have_ anywhere _to stay?"

"Don' wanna tell you," he mumbled.

"How much money do you have on you?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Oh, don't give me that crap. How much money do you have on you, right now?" He eased down from the desk with a wince and hobbled behind the desk, opening a drawer and reaching into it.

"Thirty bucks," he mumbled.

"Look," he said, fiddling with a key ring. He tossed him a single key a second later. "I'm about to do something that goes against everything I stand for, so you better not make me regret it."

"What are you talking about?" he asked, catching the key and turning it over in front of his face. "What's this for?"

House cleared his throat and rattled off an address, hobbling in his direction. "Go there, and wait for me. Got it?"

"You serious?"

"No, I'm joking," he snapped, slapping a hand against his side. "The keys were just for effect. Yes I'm serious. Go and wait, and don't touch anything. Give me a couple of hours to figure out what's going on with my patient."

Alvie stood and gazed upon the keys as though they were the equivalent to the Holy Grail.

"Hold up a sec, you didn't just give me the key to your locker and a fake address, right?"

"As much as the thought of you wandering around the city looking for a fake address with the key to my locker warms my heart, no. Address is real. Key's to the apartment."

"Oh man, you rock!"

"Yeah, I know, I'm a saint." He touched Alvie's shoulder and roughly guided him toward the door.

"I knew you'd have my back!"

Suddenly a strange sound filled the room. House reached for his pager and looked at it, frowning at the code.

"What's that?"

"Huh." He squinted at his pager, raised an eyebrow. "Looks like my patient isn't faking afterall."

"Faking what?"

"That's what I need to figure out."

He walked Alvie to the elevator and rode down with him until his stop came up. He paused for an instant and looked over his shoulder as the giant metal doors closed, Alvie giving him the thumbs up. He wondered how the hell he was going to tell Wilson. Temporary or not, he couldn't see him thrilled about the prospect of having another person living with them.

He shook his head and hurried along, crossing something off from the whiteboard inside his head. Vomiting blood was hard to fake.


	2. Chapter 2

His hands tightened their grip on his cane as he stared out at the fading blue sky. It began to rain nearly an hour ago; a light, humid drizzle that, even with the hospital's air conditioning system, made the air thick and hot and hard to breathe.

He locked on to a distinctive sigh somewhere to his right and smirked knowingly as Wilson came to a stop beside him, holding an umbrella in his hand.

Wilson sighed and said sadly, "I hate when it rains. I always end up stepping on so many worms."

House rolled his eyes and grabbed the umbrella from him. He began to fiddle with the latch, about to pop it open.

"I'm sure they don't take it personally," he said distractedly, ignoring the disapproving looks from a gathering of nurses hovering around the front desk with their arms folded, watching his every move.

"Hey!" Wilson cried, snatching it back. "That's mine! Get your own umbrella."

He nudged the door open with his elbow, tossed the nurses a boastful smile, and began making his way out to the parking lot.

House cast a glower over his shoulder and said loudly, "Those bedpans aren't going to change themselves!" before following after Wilson.

As he limped along, rain dripping down his face and soaking into his scalp, he tried not to stare down at his feet, looking for any signs of the long, pale earthworms and the smaller, almost invisible ones, dotting the sidewalk. He quickly caught up with Wilson and opened the car door, plopping into the seat and smiling happily at the squish his wet jacket made.

Wilson sighed, looking askance at him.

House shrugged and began fastening his seat belt.

"You know, there's a good chance that half of the worms you stepped on can regenerate, so you shouldn't feel so bad about it. It's not like you threw a bag of cats off a bridge."

"Do you even have a patient, or did you just sit around Googling things all day?" Wilson asked, pulling out of the parking lot.

"I have a patient," House informed him, squinting out the window. "A very sick one. Was flirting with one of the nurses when he vomited blood all over her."

"Ah, the old flirt-and-spew," Wilson commented. "A classic. Any idea what's wrong with him?"

"Not a clue."

When they arrived home, the rain had mostly stopped, although it was still humid out. They excited the car and, carrying their belongings, made their way to the entrance. Wilson stopped to check his mail, giving House a confused look and gesturing to the door.

House glanced away and down at his cane, as if he hadn't seen. What was he supposed to do? He didn't have a key.

Wilson sighed in annoyance and walked up beside him, saying, "That's all right,_ I'll _get it."

He unlocked the door stepped inside. House lingered in the doorway, looking around cautiously. The light was on. He squeezed his eyes shut and silently sighed.

"Did you leave the light on again?" Wilson commented, setting his briefcase down by the door. He began peeling his jacket off when Alvie approached, wearing one of Wilson's ties and eating a bowl of cereal.

Alvie let loose high pitched scream that died down when he noticed House.

"I told you not to touch anything," House groaned.

Wilson yelped, surprised at the scream.

"Who the hell are you?" then, more confused than fearful, "Is that my tie?"

"Who am_ I? _Who are _you?_" he shot back, cradling the cereal bowl protectively.

"I_ live _here! Are you robbing me?"

"What? This is House's apartment," Alvie replied incredulously.

House sighed.

"No it_ isn't_," he lamely interjected, rubbing his forehead in exasperation.

"But you said—"

"I said I had a place," he said simply, shrugging. "I never said it was mine."

"You know this person?" Wilson asked, looking bewildered.

"We used to be roomies," Alvie proudly declared. He nodded to House for confirmation. "This guy's with you?"

House said, "Yeah."

"Cool," Alvie said, all hostility abandoned. He moved the bowl of cereal to his other hand, wiped his palm on his pants, and offered it to Wilson. "Who're you?"

Wilson hesitantly returned the handshake. "Uh… James. James Wilson."

"_You're_ Wilson?" Alvie's face lit up, and then suddenly fell. He tightened his grip on Wilson's hand and pulled him in close. "Hey, why'd you hang up on House?"

Off to the side, House groaned.

"This isn't going how I imagined."

Alvie released Wilson's hand. "You didn't tell him I was here?"

Suddenly, everything seemed to click.

Wilson blinked. "You're Alvie, aren't you?"

"That's my name! Hey, House talks about me?" he asked, obviously surprised. "What's he say?"

"He told me he punched you in the face repeatedly," was all Wilson could manage to say. "I'm so sorry."

Alvie blinked and tilted his head.

"Your friend is weird," he said to House with a grin. "I like him."

Wilson considered Alvie for a moment, and then held up a finger, grabbing a hold on House's jacket sleeve.

"Would you excuse us?" he asked, pulling House toward the kitchen.

"And take off that tie," House demanded.

When they were safely out of earshot, Wilson said to him, "were you going to tell me about this, or was I supposed to find out when he showed up at the table tomorrow to finish off the rest of the cereal?"

"I was going to tell you." House shrugged. "It just didn't come up."

"What's he doing here?"

"He's bipolar," House said, as though that were an explanation. "He needed a place to stay."

Wilson sighed but didn't look any less irritated.

"He showed up at the hospital earlier today. He's off his meds," House grumbled. "I couldn't just tell him to get lost."

"I'm glad that you've managed to make another friend," Wilson said gently. "Shocked, actually, but that's beside the point. You can't just…let people hang out here while we're at work. You might live here, but this is _my_ apartment, not yours, and I'd really appreciate it if you'd tell me these things."

Duly chastised, House looked away. He heard something heavy fall in the next room, followed by a "whoops!"

House rubbed his thumb over the hilt of his cane, softly saying with a scowl, "I was just trying to help."

Wilson's tone softened noticeably, although his demeanor remained stern. "Not only are you helping out a friend who _isn't_ me, but it's someone who might actually_ need _your help, as opposed to someone you're using as a means to an end. That's… really nice of you, House."

"Don't rub it in."

Wilson folded his arms. "No, seriously. I'm impressed. But what do you expect to be able to do for him, besides offer him a place to stay?"

"Talk him into geting back on his meds." House shrugged, and noticing the way Wilson's chest began to expand, he quickly added, "don't worry. I'll keep an eye on him. He'll be my responsibility."

Wilson stared at him long and hard.

"You'd better," he finally said, pointing a finger. He shook his head and gestured to the doorway. "Ground rules. Go establish them. And they'd better be good."

* * *

Pretty soon, Alvie sat hunched over on the sofa, watching House pace back and forth in front of him like an Admiral addressing his troops while Wilson did away with his cereal bowl.

"Okay, ground rules. One. There are two bedrooms in this apartment. Both are currently in use." He poked at the sofa with his cane. "For the time being, you sleep here."

Alvie raised his eyebrows and began bouncing softly, as if to test the comfort level. Satisfied, he shrugged.

"Two. You are a _guest_, do not forget that. _Pick up your crap_. I can't stress this enough. You leave something on the floor," he began, rolling his hand in the air to show a chain of events, "I slip on it and end up in the hospital—God knows I spend enough time there as it is—you're gone."

Wilson returned into the front room and perched on the edge of the sofa, arms folded. He nodded in agreement, as though he'd been around to hear the first rule in it's entirety, then asked, "Do you work?"

Alvie shook his head.

"Not in a long time."

"Hm, that's no good. You can't just sit here all day eating all our food." Wilson looked at House. He hiked his shoulders, arms still folded. "Well, he can't."

"I can clean," Alvie blurted out, panic flashing in his eyes.

Wilson looked at House, who shrugged. "Okay."

Alvie smirked and rubbed his hands together. "I can wash windows, sweep the floor. I do the dishes like nobody's business. I can do laundry—I don't do other guy's tighty-whities, though. Sorry, you guys are on your own there."

House banged his cane against the floor. "_Ahem_. Rule number three. Since we _do _work, you shower after we're gone. Weekends are first come first serve."

"Oh, and put the soap and shampoo and stuff back where you found it," Wilson added.

House rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I'm sure he's just dying to get in there and rearrange everything."

"So I like things a certain way. Sue me." Wilson frowned. "On second thought…could you just... _not_ move things around in general?"

"Don't move stuff around." Alvie snapped his fingers together. "Got it."

House stood by and watched Wilson smile and say thank you, and that he was almost excited to have a roommate that respected him for once. So far, everything seemed to be going smoothly, despite the rocky start. Which was why he almost felt bad for what he was about to say next.

"Rule four." He paused, looking away. "You have to go back on your medication."

"What?" Alvie said, face twisting up in anger. "I told you, they mess with my head."

House muttered softly, "that's the idea."

"We can't help you if you don't at least try," Wilson tried to reason with him.

Frustrated, Alvie folded his arms and slouched. "You can't make me."

"You're right, I can't make you," House agreed. "Neither can he. But if you don't, you're can't stay here."

Alvie's eyes locked on the door. His frown grew deeper.

"There are other options," Wilson explained softly, turning to him. "Other drugs."

"It's either that or Mayfield," House told him.

Alvie's voice turned cautious. "If I try whatever you guys give me," he said, looking between House and Wilson, "I can stay?"

House nodded.

It took him a few seconds to answer, but finally, there it was: "fine, but I want a new prescription, and I want one of you guys to write it for me."

"Why, what's wrong with your—"

"Deal," House said.

"Hello, _my apartment,_" Wilson said, annoyed. "I can't be his personal pharmacy, what are you, crazy?" He hesitated, glancing between House and Alvie. "No offense."

"Why not? You did such a good job as mine."

"Need I remind you of the Tritter incident?" Wilson said, looking grim.

Alvie blinked. "The Twitter incident?"

House shrugged again, ignoring Alvie. "If it keeps him level and keeps us happy, what do you care?"

"I'm sorry, what? I think I had a bit of 'manipulative bastard that wants to ruin my career' in my ear."

"Fine. _I'll _call Nolan and tell him he's switching over to me. Big _deal._ The most he can do is threaten to withhold his records, and if he does, I tell him it was Alvie's decision and completely voluntary."

Wilson threw his hands up. "All right, if you can convince Nolan, I guess I'm in."

In the short pause that followed, Alvie said, "you guys have Twitter?"

House looked at him.

"I like to follow Eminem's tweets sometimes," Alvie said innocently.

"Tritter, not Twitter. Good for you, though."

"So...we're okay?" Alvie asked.

Wilson sighed and shrugged. "I guess so."

He looked up to find Alvie with a funny look on his face, arms held open wide.

"Seal the deal with a hug?" he offered.

"Yeah…" Wilson's face pinched up in horror. He gestured to the kitchen, and said, "I think I'll pass."

He slid off the arm of the couch and walked away.

That just left House.

Alvie raised his eyebrows suggestively, his fingers wiggling as if to pull House in.

"You know you wanna."

House inhaled deeply, his eyebrows pulling together.

"Rule five. No hugging," he said, and then turned, following Wilson into the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

House stood quietly, drinking coffee from a tall, plastic cup and peering out over the balcony. He enjoyed the view—not that there was much to see, and not that he hadn't seen it a hundred times before. Really, he was just biding his time, waiting until Wilson gave in and asked him what he was doing there. He noticed the steam from his coffee was starting to fog up the glass, so he went and sat on the sofa.

Wilson did not look up. He frowned and brought a case file up to his face for closer inspection. Satisfied, he dropped it back onto the desk.

House would never admit it, but despite wanting to just get it over with, he was almost…anxious over talking to Nolan. In therapy lately, the focus had been on his self destructive behavior, and why he felt the need to manipulate those around him so much, to control their lives. He'd already had to endure a crash course on the subject courtesy of Nolan himself, but the subject was a frequently reoccurring one.

If it were anyone else, House wouldn't give a second thought on the matter. Nolan was different, though. He was sharp and witty, more so than House liked to admit.

However, Nolan had signed his release, and has Okayed his return to medicine. He might give him a speech on how unethical it was to be both physician and friend to someone, but there wasn't any logical reason for him to refuse to transfer Alvie over.

He decided he wasn't worried. If anything, he was annoyed, trying to anticipate how the conversation would go.

He cleared his throat, attempting to gain Wilson's attention.

"What is it, House? I'm busy."

House tilted his head toward the balcony and haphazardly asked, "Do you even use that thing?"

"What 'thing'?" he asked, distracted.

"The balcony."

"You're here to question me about how often I use my balcony?"

House shrugged. "Just wondering why you get one and I don't."

Wilson set his pen down and smirked tiredly. "What are you, six? You already have a conference room. What would you do with a balcony? Where would you _put it?_"

"Yeah, but how cool would it be if I could save lives, and work on my tan at the same time?"

They shared a moment of silence in which Wilson considered him, a peculiar expression on his face.

"Is there a specific reason for your being here?" he mumbled, and then closed the file on his desk.

House took a sip from his coffee and made himself comfortable.

"Not really, no."

Wilson nodded as if he understood. "I thought you had a case."

"I do. Or I did," he corrected, unclipping his pager from his pants. He held it up, inspecting it. "Still waiting to find out."

Wilson pushed away from his desk. "What are you talking about?"

"My patient thinks I'm incompetent," he answered in a choppy voice. He shrugged like a child being guilted into telling the truth. "And he may think that I tried to kill him."

"Oh, this I've got to hear." Wilson moved around his desk and settled at the edge of it, his arms folded.

House rolled his eyes. "I didn't try to kill him. My team did. Long story short, apparently the guy is allergic to one of the drugs we gave him, didn't _know_ he was allergic, went into anaphylactic shock, yada, yada, demanded to speak to his lawyer, and here I am."

Wilson looked confused. "But he sighed a wavier."

"Apparently, he's too stupid to know what a waiver is," House said pointedly.

Wilson sighed, shrugging half-heartedly.

"You know, this kind of thing happens once, maybe twice in a lifetime to any other doctor in this hospital—completely ignoring the waiver issue—and it's _never _happened to me. It happens to you on a weekly basis. This doesn't… concern you? Doesn't raise any red flags?"

Clutching his cane, House pulled himself up from the sofa, trying to keep his coffee from spilling over. He began meandering about, as he often did in between cases or while waiting for test results. "What's your problem?"

"Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I was up half the night, worrying I was going to have my throat slit by your old roommate."

When he had finished, House asked, "are you always this much of a drama queen?"

"Okay, so maybe I'm being a little dramatic," Wilson admitted, rocking his hand slightly for emphasis. "But my point still stands. I don't know a thing about the guy, and I'm supposed to open my home to him, no questions asked?"

"You'll get to know him," House responded. "Even if you have no intention of getting to know him. _Especially _if you have no intention of getting to know him."

Wilson frowned pensively. "How did I let you talk me into this again?"

"I already told you, I couldn't just tell him to beat it. Do you have any idea of the lecture I'd get if Nolan found out I just let him walk out of here?"

"The man is your therapist, House. And he's familiar with Alvie. I'm pretty sure he's not going to be comfortable with either scenario."

"If only there were some way around the law…" House mused.

Wilson broke in, holding up his hand. "Do it legally, and do it by the book. Remember, you won't just have Nolan breathing down your neck; Cuddy'll be keeping an eye on you, too."

"Come on, Wilson," House teased. "Live a little."

"I've lived enough, thanks. Oh, and you'd better call him." He walked around the desk again and sat, and then gestured to the phone. "Make sure the apartment is still in one piece."

House began for the door. "You call him. I'm busy."

"I'm not calling, you call him! He's _your_ friend!"

House turned, and both men locked eyes. House's face remained screwed up in an annoyed scowl; Wilson had his head tilted and both eyebrows raised high.

It was House who broke the silence.

"Fine," he snapped. He squinted menacingly and raised his cane suddenly, bringing it down over the side of the door with a loud clack.

"House!" Wilson yelped, recoiling in surprise. "What the hell?"

"You blinked. I win," House announced, closing the door behind him as he left.

"Grow up!" Wilson called after him.

On the way to his office, his pager beeped.

"Oh, come on," he groaned.

His leg was bothering him and the cynical playfulness in him was beginning to wane. He wanted to call Nolan and get it over with, not argue with an idiot patient who didn't know what a waiver was. He groaned, making a detour, headed for the patient's room. He didn't bother to knock; Foreman was already there, arms folded, looking an equal amount of annoyed and bored.

Deciding to skip the preliminaries, he asked, "So, are we getting sued, or what?"

The patient bristled and looked at him sternly for a moment, and then hung his head. "No."

"Well, good," House replied, tossing his cane up and catching it. He pretended to look at it, as though noticing something he hadn't ever seen before as he spoke, "Because you signed a waiver. So really, the whole lawyer thing was a big waste of everyone's time."

Foreman sighed. "I tried to tell him that, but he wouldn't listen."

"Look," the man said. "Do you have any idea what's wrong with me?"

House paused.

"No," he said.

Foreman shifted uncomfortably.

The man opened his mouth to reply, but then stopped, and dropped his eyes to his lap. He fidgeted with his blanket.

"Could I die?" he asked.

House shrugged. "Anything's possible. You could die of a heart attack tomorrow."

"There's something wrong with my heart?" the man gasped, clutching at his chest.

"No, your heart's fine, I just meant that—"

Foreman, sensing the tension and dread beginning to build up in the room, interjected.

"Mr. Cox, We're doing our best," he said calmly, gently. "Now that we know you're allergic to the drug, we know not to give you any of its sister drugs. We can't always know who will react to what. Not to be rude, but you didn't even know you were allergic to it."

The man seemed to consider this, his dark sunken eyes bouncing between Foreman and House.

"And if I request to be transferred to another hospital?" he asked.

Foreman sighed. "Then I'm afraid there's nothing we can do to stop you. But we'd really rather you stay here."

The man scoffed. "Of course you would. You want my money."

"I don't want your money," House started, but was cut off by Foreman.

"I know he can be a bit—abrasive—but in my professional opinion, he's your best option right now."

"He's got some bedside manner," the man grimly remarked.

The look on Foreman's face said 'tell me about it.' "Be that as it may, he's very good at what he does. He's the best doctor we have."

The man sighed and laid his head back against his pillow, chuckling bitterly. No one spoke for a long while.

"All right, then. I guess I have no choice." he threw his hands up in submission. "Do what you can."

"We will, Mr. Cox," Foreman said with a reassuring smile.

House, still lingering near the exit, said, "well, now that we're done here, I'm gonna go."

He finished off his coffee and pitched the container in the trash bin, about to slide the door open. From across the room, Foreman gave him the evil eye. He sighed and turned away in attempts to keep his patient unaware of his eye rolling, and forced a sneer.

He said, "My team and I are on it."

When the haughty expression finally relaxed from Foreman's face, and he appeared at least minimally satisfied, House left.

Forty minutes later, he was in his office, stretched out in his chair, his bad elevated. He sighed and dug around in a drawer, wrapping his fingers around a bottle of Ibuprofen. He tossed two into his mouth and dry-swallowed, reaching for the phone.

* * *

He arrived home before Wilson, and seeing that they were low on food, he called to tell him to pick a couple things up on his way home. Cradling the phone in the crook of his shoulder, he cast a glance around the apartment, looking for signs of Alvie. The television was on, but the sofa was empty.

He hung up and shrugged his backpack onto the floor, entering the front room cautiously.

"Alvie?" he called out.

The thought that, perhaps leaving him home alone wasn't such a good idea flashed through his mind, but was quickly abandoned when he noticed a half full glass of Kool Aid, and the remains of what appeared to be a grilled cheese sandwich on the coffee table.

The front room wasn't trashed, although it certainly wasn't any cleaner than it had been when he'd left that morning. Some rap program was playing on the television, a slow-paced tune with a heavy bass.

"Alvie!" he shouted again, louder, rounding the sofa and turning.

"House?" a voice came from the kitchen. Feet hit the tiled floor; footsteps headed for the front room. ''He-hey! What're you doin' home?''

"I live here, don't look so surprised" House explained, waving to the coffee table. "Clean that up before Wilson sees it and has a stroke."

"I know," Alvie said, retrieving the plate and glass. "I'm just wonderin' why you're home so early."

"I told you this was when I would be home."

"You did?' he uttered a startled sound, fleeing House's cane. "You sure?"

"Positive."

"When did we have that conversation?"

"It wasn't one conversation," House said, rounding him into the kitchen. "It was several."

While Alvie scraped his plate into the trash bin and proceeded to wash and set it in the dish drain, House hung his cane on the lip of the kitchen counter and donned an apron. He went about setting out a saucepan and filling a pot of water.

"What are you doing?" Alvie gawked at him.

"What's it look like I'm doing?" House asked bitingly. "I'm making dinner."

Alvie appeared at his side, leaning over the stovetop curiously.

"You can cook?" he asked, surprised.

"I took a class with Wilson. It's excellent for managing pain," he said distractedly, rummaging through a drawer.

Alvie looked as though he were resisting the urge to hop up onto the counter like a child. "You any good?"

"Nobody's died yet,'' House said with a shrug.

'You know, you didn't have to call and check up on me today,'' Alvie told him, leaning an elbow against the counter.

"I wasn't," House clarified. "I was calling to check up on you for Wilson."

"Oh. Well...whatever."

House shooed him out of the way, pulling out a large wooden spoon, and then he opened up a cabinet and took out two boxes of pasta noodles.

Alvie rocked back on his heels, moving out of the way as quickly as he could.

"So… you talk to Nolan?" he asked.

House nodded. "Yep."

"What'd he say?"

"Well he's not thrilled about the idea, but I talked him into it," he said. "And the sooner he forwards your records, the sooner we can get you on something." He could tell Alvie was glad to hear the news—as glad as he could be, anyway, without wanting to take anything in the first place. "So why do you want a new prescription, anyway? Wasn't the old one working?"

"I didn't like it."

"Why?"

"It just didn't make me feel right, okay?"

House nodded, sensing Alvie's frustration.

He already had an idea of what he wanted to try Alvie on first, but he was sure Wilson also had a few thoughts in mind. Between the two of them, he was sure they'd find something suited to their friend. He could only hope that Alvie would actually stick to the plan.

"Hey, um...I just wanted to like, you know, uh, thank you and all," he said, his voice much kinder than before. "You n' Wilson. You guys've been awesome."

House, who never knew what to say in situations such as these, said nothing at first. Finally, he settled on: "You can thank me by not giving Nolan any reason to say 'I told you so.'"

Alvie nodded and held his hand up. "Don't worry about it, I got this."

House turned away from the almost-boiling water for a moment, and looked at Alvie, who looked back at him.

"The other day, I asked you if you were using. You avoided the question."

Alvie's eyes flickered.

"Just some beer every once in a while," he answered.

House squinted at him thoughtfully.

"I'm serious," Alvie said, sounding upset. "I don't do that stuff anymore."

"So you admit you did use drugs as an escape before," House said, looking for that hitch of breath that never came.

He shrugged. "Yeah, okay. Couple years ago, I'd do a little bit of this, little bit of that."

"'This' and 'that' being?''

"Little coke, some ecstasy."

"But not anymore," House said evenly, studying his expression.

"Not anymore," Alvie replied.

His trademark phrase, 'Everyone Lies' buzzed around in his head like a warning siren, even though something in him wanted to believe Alvie. He decided to consider that, for the time being, Alvie might actually be telling the truth. If he wasn't, House was confident that he would soon find out what, if anything, he was hiding.

House nodded again. "Okay."

Wilson returned with the groceries faster than House had anticipated. He sent Alvie to get the door.

Alvie left, and then returned lugging in a heavy brown paper bag in his skinny arms. He set it down on the counter and began to bring everything out, oohing and aahing. Wilson walked in a second later, carrying a much smaller plastic bag with what appeared to be only one or two items.

House smirked, watching Wilson loosen his tie and begin to roll his sleeves up.

"You remember the chicken?" He asked.

He stepped away from the stove and hobbled toward a cabinet, bending down to retrieve a skillet. His leg buckled as he did, but he was able to steady it with his hand. He wasn't sure Alvie had noticed, but he knew Wilson had. Surprisingly, Wilson didn't say a thing.

"Yes I remembered the chicken," Wilson sighed. He replaced the old milk in the fridge with a carton of new milk, and tossed the old one out.

"Measuring cups, yeah, sure," Alvie said. He made a hesitant sound in his throat, looking completely lost. His finger twirled around, as though it were a dousing rod. "Measuring...huh. Yeah. Where're those?"

Wilson set the butter and cream on the counter, and then told Alvie where to find them.

"Aha!" Alvie cried, pulling open the drawer that contained the measuring cups.

"So, what happened with Nolan?"Wilson asked.

House found the chicken in the plastic bag and began to unwrap it, then chop it into pieces and dump them into the skillet.

"He said yes."

Wilson leaned forward, both eyebrows raised.

"'Yes'? Just like that?" he prodded.

"I told him I wanted his records forwarded and he said he wanted to talk to me about it. I argued that we were already talking about it, he said to stop being difficult." He said, as though taking the time to explain were the most annoying thing in the world. "He basically said yes. Pepper!"

"Pepper," Alvie repeated, and replaced the saltshaker with the peppershaker, handing it to House.

"Basically meaning... 'yes' or 'no', but you're going to do it, anyway?"

House kept one eye on the chicken, found a strainer and tossed it into the sink, saying, "so long as you watch me while I watch him, I think we're in the clear."

"Really?" Wilson said, surprised. "I didn't think it would be this easy."

House said, "that makes two of us."

"Any ideas of what you want to prescribe yet?"

"I've got a few things in mind," House replied reluctantly. "Why? Do you?"

"I might."

"What are they?"

"You tell me yours first."

House eyed him and said, "Clozapine."

"Lithium," Wilson answered quickly.

"_Lithium?_" House repeated, rolling his eyes. "That's the best you could come up with?"

"Uh, hate to interrupt," Alvie said, "but I was already on that second one. Made me have to pee a lot," he added.

"You were already on Lithium?" Wilson squinted at him disbelievingly. "Why did your doctor take you off it?"

"I uh…I kinda…"

Wilson and House stared at him, awaiting an answer.

"I pissed my pants, all right? He said that wasn't supposed to happen and to just wait it out, but I just kept doin' it, even when I tried not to drink a lot."

"Okay," Wilson sighed. "Lithium's out. What about Risperidone?"

"Tried that."

"Jesus, what haven't they put you on?" House mumbled.

When dinner was done, they piled their plates and retreated to the front room, despite Wilson's griping over 'why have a dining room table if no one's going to use it?'

"What is this?" Wilson asked in horror, pointing to the television. Three men were inches away from the screen, each holding a microphone. Two of them were wearing visors, one upside down and one cocked to the side, and the third had a pattern shaved into one of his eyebrows.

"Whoops." Alvie grabbed the remote and changed the channel. "Sorry."

Alvie sat cross-legged on the floor, plate supported on his knee, House on the sofa; Wilson stood behind them, preferring to stand.

Wilson asked, "So, what'd you do all day?"

"Who?" House asked around a mouthful of chicken, watching the channels flicker by.

He shrugged helplessly. "Both of you."

"My patient threatened to sue me," he offered, "but you already knew that."

Alvie's fork stopped mid-bite. "Someone was gonna sue you?"

"Someone's always threatening to sue him," Wilson said with a sneer. "How'd that go, anyway?"

"Good news. We're not getting sued."

Wilson nodded, returning to his meal. He took a quick look around the apartment some minutes later, his expression clouding. House shot him a threatening glare, but he chose to ignore it.

"What about you?" He said to Alvie, using his I'm-prying-but-not-prying voice. He picked at his food, trying to look innocent. "What did you do all day?"

Alvie shrugged the question off. "Nothing really."

"I can see that," Wilson replied.

Alvie glanced up, his head cocked to the side. "Huh?" A smile slowly but surely began to spread across his face. He shook his finger and laughed. "Aha, you're funny. Yeah, but really, tomorrow? This place'll be spotless."

Wilson said, "I sure hope so."

"Don't even worry 'bout it," Alvie assured him, flashing a big grin. He reached forward and set his plate on the coffee table, then looked up at House. "So. You're my doctor now, huh?"

House squinted at him carefully, and then looked over at Wilson.

"Minor lapse of judgment," he said.


End file.
